that will set the tone for a relationship that could last the rest of her life.
Paul reaches across and passes Laurel a wrapped gift. “Happy birthday,” he says.
Laurel tuts. “Oh Paul,” she says, “you didn’t have to. That’s just . . .”
“It’s nothing, really.”
“Shall I open it now?”
He shrugs. “Yes. Why not.”
She unpeels the paper and uncovers a book. The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt.
“I hope you haven’t read it?”
“No,” she says, turning it over to read the back cover blurb. She hasn’t read a book for ten years.
“Ooh, that book is brilliant,” says Poppy.
“Oh,” says Paul, “you’ve read it?”
“Yes,” she replies. “I read two books a week. At least.”
“Wow,” says Paul. “And you enjoyed it?”
“Loved it.” She picks the book up and holds it between her hands, caressing the sides of it lovingly. “It’s about a boy who goes to a museum and his mum gets blown up by a bomb. He steals a small painting in the midst of the chaos and then spends the rest of his life trying to hide it from everyone. It’s set in New York.”
“Sounds brilliant,” says Laurel.
Poppy nods. “It really, really is.” Her face lights up as she talks.
“I must say,” says Laurel, “that for a girl who thinks humanity is just a tedious mistake, you seem to have a lot of enthusiasm for novels. What is it about fiction that you enjoy?”
Poppy’s hands fall onto the book. “Stories,” she says, “are the only thing in this world that are real. Everything else is just a dream.”
Laurel and Paul smile and nod. Then they turn to each other and exchange a look. Not a wry look this time, but one of disquiet.
Ellie used to read two books a week and when they teased her about always having her nose in a book, Ellie used to say, “When I read a book it feels like real life and when I put the book down it’s like I go back into the dream.”
Laurel picks up her champagne and raises it to Poppy. “Cheers to that, Poppy,” she says, “cheers to that.”
The evening is enjoyable. A success. Poppy does slightly attempt to hijack proceedings but as she is so obviously the youngest at the table and everyone is looking for some extra social glue to keep the whole precarious thing stuck together, she gets away with it.
“What a delightful girl,” Paul whispers in her ear as they’re filing out of the restaurant at eleven o’clock. “Doesn’t she remind you in a funny way of . . .”
Laurel knows what he’s going to say before the word is out of his mouth. “Yes,” she says. “Yes, in some ways. She really does.”
“That thing about the book. The reality and the dreams.” He shakes his head wonderingly.
“I know. I know. Weird.”
“And looks like her, a bit, too?”
“A bit,” she agrees. “Yes.”
“Funny,” he says, plucking his coat from a coat rack, “that you’ve found yourself in a lookalike family.”
“A what?”
“Well, he looks a bit like me, too, doesn’t he?”
His tone is light but Laurel blanches.
“Er, no,” she says, “not really. Just the hair. And the clothes.”
Paul looks at her fondly, realizing that he’s crossed one of her many lines, the lines he knows so well. “Yes,” he says. “That’s true. I like him,” he adds conciliatorily. “He seems like a good man.”
“Well,” she says, briskly, “it’s early days yet. We’ll see, won’t we?”
“Yes.” He smiles. “Of course, there’s still plenty of time for him to prove himself to be an utter psychopath. Plenty of time.”
She laughs. It’s nice talking to someone who knows her better than anyone else in the world. It’s nice talking to Paul.
“You know,” he continues, “you know you deserve this, don’t you? You know you’re allowed it?”
She shrugs, feeling a rush of heat up the back of her sinuses. “Maybe,” she manages quietly. “Maybe.”
23
Laurel pulls herself from Floyd’s bed at eight o’clock the following morning. He groans and turns to glance at his bedside alarm clock. “Come back,” he growls, throwing an arm across the bed. “It’s the weekend. It’s too early!”
“I need to get home,” she says, wrapping her hand around his where it lies on the wrinkled sheets.
“No you don’t.”
She laughs. “Yes I do! I told you, remember. I’m going for lunch at my friends’ house.”
He feigns defeat and throws himself back onto his pillow. “Use me for sex and then just abandon me,” he says. “See if I care.”
“I can come back later?” she says. “If you can find it in your